“Excellent. We’re booked into room 9 on the north shore of the bay, where Aileen Wuornos-America’s so-called first female serial killer-holed up with her lover while picking off Johns. Then I traced Aileen’s footsteps up the side of U.S. 1, where she stumbled each night from the Fairview to this bar …” He pulled out his trusty digital camera. “… Documenting her route every ten yards.”
The bartender came over. “What’ll it be?”
“Bottled water. And one of every souvenir you’ve got, including that T-shirt, ‘Home of ice cold beer and killer women.’” Serge turned on his camera. “I need to document this with total photographic coverage.”
“But you already took a bunch of pictures this morning.”
Serge aimed the camera at a wall. “No I didn’t.” Click.
“Yes you did,” said Coleman. “Must have shot hundreds.”
“You’re messing with me.” Click. “I wasn’t even here this morning.”
“If you don’t believe me, just ask the bartender.”
Click. “Why?”
“Because you talked to him for a long time, bunch of questions like you always do.”
The bartender arrived with water and a pile of keepsakes.
“Thanks,” said Serge. “Maybe you can help settle something. My friend says I spoke to you this morning.”
“Quite a while.”
“Really? What did I say?”
The bartender smiled diplomatically. “Don’t take this wrong, but it was pretty weird.”
“Then it must have been me.”
“Told you,” said Coleman.
“If I did take a load of pictures, they got to be in here.” Serge hit the review button on his camera and scrolled through a massive file of photos from the bar: movie poster for Monster, framed newspaper articles, every inch of wall scribbling, plastic pig. Then more from outside. The colorful patron bricks, including Wuornos’s, a fence of small, sheet-metal tombstone plaques remembering fallen riders.
Coleman leaned for a better look at Serge’s tiny digital screen. “What’s that big tree with all those motorcycles hanging from it?”
“The motorcycle tree,” said Serge. “Out behind the bar. Ashes from riders on those tombstone plaques spread under it.”
“I’ve been noticing a lot of biker bars lately,” said Coleman.
“Because we’re in the Biker Trapezoid.”
“The what?”
“You know the Bermuda Triangle?” Serge clicked through more photos. “Florida has what I’ve dubbed the Biker Trapezoid. St. Augustine to New Smyrna Beach, then over to Kissimmee and Lees-burg. Extends farther, but that’s roughly the core. Magnificent back-road scenic tours for the two-wheel crowd, which is now welcomed everywhere.”
“I remember when police would fuck with bikers.”
“Until the financial statements came in. Ask any Daytona Beach merchant who used to bank on spring break. College students eat and drink on the cheap, pack ten to a room and trash the place. Then they had a couple motorcycle fests and couldn’t believe the contrast. Bikers spend a fortune. Not only that, but they behave better than the kids and leave rooms in one piece.”
“They don’t still party like maniacs?”
“More than ever,” said Serge. “Which is a bigger plus. Capitalism’s favorite son is anyone getting hammered on a full wallet. The cash infusion to the local economy is so ridiculous that chambers of commerce persuaded police departments to go on flex-mode during motorcycle migrations. Instead of arresting rambunctious bikers, they now politely steer them from trouble so they can live to spend another day.” Serge looked at the floor next to Coleman’s stool. “What’s in the bag?”
“Oh, almost forgot.” He bent down and handed it to Serge. “Howard asked me to give this to you.”
“When?” Serge reached inside.
“I don’t know. Couple days ago at one of the hotels.”
“And you’re just now getting around to it?”
“Sorry.”
Serge pulled out his hand. “Oh my God!”
“What is it?”
He slowly rotated the white plastic dolphin. “Carolina Snowball! The famous albino dolphin from the sixties at the Miami Seaquarium.” Serge held it right to his eyes. “This came from one of those vintage, glass dome injection-mold vending machines. And it’s just like the one I got as a kid when my grandfather took me to the aquarium, except I lost mine years ago.”
“That was awfully thoughtful of him.”
“But how’d he know?”
“You told him all about it.”
“I did?”
“Went on and on …”
Serge hopped from his stool. “Watch my souvenirs.” He ran out the door to their car and returned in a flash, opening a laptop on the bar.
“What are you doing now?”
“That reminded me about my promise to Howard.” He typed nonstop on the stolen computer with wireless Internet access, “Here we go …” Serge found a website for the hometown newspaper where Howard’s mother lived. Serge clicked into the classified section and read down a column of homes for sale. “Here’s one … Here’s another … and another …”
“Another what?”
“Homes listed with the agent who ripped off Howard’s mom. If my hunch is correct …” He flipped open his cell and dialed the number from the ads.
Coleman turned. “But how are you going to-“
“Shhhhh! It’s ringing … Hello? Mr. Miller? My name is Tom Gifford with the Clarion-Ledger-Beacon. I’m in the classified department, and I apologize for the inconvenience, but one of my new employees incorrectly entered the credit card information when you placed some recent home ads. No, I can’t get it from the last time: Database is down for maintenance … Yes, I have a pen … Uh-huh… uh-huh … uh-huh … and the expiration date?… and the three-digit security code on the back? … and your billing address … Got it. Again, I’m awfully sorry for the trouble …”
Serge hung up and surfed the Internet until he found another phone number. He dialed again. “Hello, Appliance King? What’s your most expensive refrigerator?… Sounds perfect… That’ll be delivery… Yes, I have my credit card ready …”
Minutes later, another phone call. “Eduardo, Serge here. Remember the favor you owe me? … That abandoned gas station next to your shop is about to get a delivery, and I need you to sign for it … No, not your name. T.A. Miller … Real estate agent… Right, then I need you to deliver and install it at another address. Got something to write with?…”
Serge finished the call and closed his laptop. “The Justice League triumphs again.”
COCOA BEACH
Mahoney walked across a parking lot, unfolding a flyer and reading it for the tenth time: “Howard Enterprises. Floridiana from all eras. Estates appraised.” The agent returned it to his pocket and entered the only conference room in a modest beach motel.
Against the back wall, a young man boxed up pins and buttons and citrus-packing labels. It had been a slow day, as in nothing. Howard decided to bag it early.
“Excuse me.”
Howard looked up. “Yes.”
Mahoney pulled a brown leather holder from his tweed jacket and flashed a badge.
“Wow!” said Howard. “That’s a Dade sheriff, 1942. I’ll give you fifty.”
Mahoney turned the shield around. “Shoot, grabbed the wrong one.” He returned it to his jacket. “Genuine article’s back on my dresser.”
“You’re a cop?”
Mahoney answered by whipping out a mug shot. “Seen this man?”
Howard instantly recognized it. “Has he done something wrong?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I gave him a postcard the other day.”
Mahoney stuck a matchstick in his mouth. “Which way’d he hoof?”
“South, I think.”
“Anything else?”
“Seemed real nice.”
Mahoney pulled the matchstick out. “Fits his M.O.”